“I want to go back,” said Jane. “I’m going back.”
“Darling,” said mother imploringly, “don’t go. You grew away from me last summer. If you go again I’ll lose more of you. . . .”
Jane looked down at the carpet and her lips set in a line that had an odd resemblance to grandmother’s.
Grandmother took the letter from mother, glanced at it and looked at Jane.
“Victoria,” she said, quite pleasantly for her, “I think you have not given the matter sufficient thought. I say nothing for myself . . . I have never expected gratitude . . . but your mother’s wishes ought to carry some weight with you. Victoria” — grandmother’s voice grew sharper—”please do me the courtesy of looking at me while I am speaking to you.”
Jane looked at grandmother . . . looked her straight in the eyes, unflinchingly, unyieldingly. Grandmother seemed to put a certain unusual restraint on herself. She still spoke pleasantly.
“I have not mentioned this before, Victoria, but I decided some time ago that I would take you and your mother for a trip to England this summer. We will spend July and August there. You will enjoy it, I know. I think that between a summer in England and a summer in a hut in a country settlement on P. E. Island even you could hardly hesitate.”
Jane did not hesitate. “Thank you, grandmother. It is very kind of you to offer me such a lovely trip. I hope you and mother will enjoy it. But I would rather go to the Island.”
Even Mrs Robert Kennedy knew when she was beaten. But she could not accept defeat gracefully.
“You get that stubborn will of yours from your father,” she said, her face twisted with anger. For the moment she looked simply like a very shrewish old spitfire. “You grow more like him every day of your life . . . you’ve got his very chin.”
Jane was thankful she had got a will from someone. She was glad she looked like dad . . . glad her chin was like his. But she wished mother were not crying.
“Don’t waste your tears, Robin,” said grandmother, turning scornfully from Jane. “It’s the Stuart coming out in her . . . you could expect nothing else. If she prefers her trumpery friends down there to you, there is nothing you can do about it. I have said all I intend to say on the matter.”
Mother stood up and dabbed her tears away with a cobwebby handkerchief.
“Very well, dear,” she said brightly and hardly. “You have made your choice. I agree with your grandmother that there is nothing more to be said.”
She went out, leaving Jane with a heart that was almost breaking. Never in her life had mother spoken to her in that hard, brittle tone. She felt as if she had been suddenly pushed far, far away from her. But she did not regret her choice. She had no choice really. She had to go back to dad. If it came to choosing between him and mother . . . Jane rushed to her room, flung herself down on the big white bearskin, and writhed in a tearless agony no child should ever have to suffer.
It was a week before Jane was herself again, although mother, after that bitter little outburst, had been as sweet and loving as ever. When she had come in to say good night she had held Jane very tightly and silently.
Jane hugged her mother closer to her.
“I have to go, mother . . . I have to go . . . but I do love you. . . .”
“Oh, Jane, I hope you do . . . but sometimes you seem so far away from me that you might as well be beyond Sirius. Don’t . . . don’t let any one ever come between us. That is all I ask.”
“No one can . . . no one wants to, mother.”
In one way, it occurred to Jane, that was not strictly true. She had known for a long while that grandmother would like very well to come between them if she could only bring it about. But Jane also knew that by “no one” mother meant dad, and so her answer was true.
There was a letter from Polly Garland the last day of April . . . a jubilant Polly.
“We’re all so glad you’re coming back this summer, Jane. Oh, Jane, I wish you could see the pussy-willows in our swamp.”
Jane wished so, too. And there were other fascinating bits of news in Polly’s letter. Min’s ma’s cow was worn out and Min’s ma was going to get a new one. Polly had a hen setting on nine eggs . . . Jane could see nine real live wee baby chicks running round. Well, father had promised her some hens this summer . . . Step-a-yard had told Polly to tell her it was a great spring and even the roosters were laying; the baby had been christened William Charles and was toddling round everywhere and getting thin; Big Donald’s dog had been poisoned, had had six convulsions, but had recovered.
“Only six more weeks.” It was weeks now where it had been months. Down home the robins would be strutting round Lantern Hill and the mists would be coming in from the sea. Jane ticked off April.
CHAPTER 33
It was the last week in May that Jane saw the house. Mother had gone one evening to visit a friend who had just moved into a new house in the new Lakeside development on the banks of the Humber. She took Jane with her and it was a revelation to Jane whose only goings and comings had been so circumscribed that she had never dreamed there were such lovely places in Toronto. Why, it was just like a pretty country village out here . . . hills and ravines with ferns and wild columbines growing in them and rivers and trees . . . the green fire of willows, the great clouds of oaks, the plumes of pines and, not far away, the blue mist that was Lake Ontario.
Mrs Townley lived on a street called Lakeside Gardens, and she showed them proudly over her new house. It was so big and splendid that Jane did not feel very much interested in it and after a while she slipped away in the dusk to explore the street itself, leaving mother and Mrs Townley talking cupboards and bathrooms.
Jane decided that she liked Lakeside Gardens. She liked it because it twisted and curved. It was a friendly street. The houses did not look at each other with their noses in the air. Even the big ones were not snooty. They sat among their gardens, with spireas afoam around them and tulips and daffodils all about their toes, and said, “We have lots of room . . . we don’t have to push with our elbows . . . we can afford to be gracious.”
Jane looked them over carefully as she went by but it was not until she was nearly at the end of the street, where it turned into a road winding down to the lake, that she saw her house. She had liked a great many of the houses she had passed but when she saw this house she knew at first sight that it belonged to her . . . just as Lantern Hill did.
It was a small house for Lakeside Gardens but a great deal bigger than Lantern Hill. It was built of grey stone and had casement windows . . . some of them beautifully unexpected . . . and a roof of shingles stained a very dark brown. It was built right on the edge of the ravine overlooking the tree-tops, with five great pines just behind it.
“What a darling place!” breathed Jane.
It was a new house: it had just been built and there was a For Sale sign on the lawn. Jane went all around it and peered through every diamond-paned window. There was a living-room that would really live when it was furnished, a dining-room with a door that opened into a sun-room and the most delightful breakfast nook in pale yellow, with built-in china-closets. It should have chairs and table of yellow, too, and curtains at the recessed window between gold and green that would look like sunshine on the darkest day. Yes, this house belonged to her . . . she could see herself in it, hanging curtains, polishing the glass doors, making cookies in the kitchen. She hated the For Sale sign. To think that somebody would be buying that house . . . her house . . . was torture.
She prowled round and round it. At the back the ground was terraced right down to the floor of the ravine. There was a rock garden and a group of forsythia bushes that must have been fountains of pale gold in early spring. Three flights of stone steps went down the terraces, with the delicacy of birch shadows about them, and off to one side was a wild garden of slender young Lombardies. A robin winked at her; a nice chubby cat came over from the neighbouring rock garden. Jane tried to catch him, but . . . “Excuse me. This is my busy
day,” said the cat and pattered down the stone steps.
Jane finally sat down on the front steps and gave herself up to a secret joy. There was a gap in the trees on the opposite side of the street through which a far, purple-grey hill showed. There were misty, pale green woods over the river. The woods all around Lantern Hill would be misty green, too. The banners of a city of night were being flaunted in the sunset sky behind the pines farther down. The gulls soared whitely up the river.
It grew darker. Lights bloomed out in the houses. Jane always felt the fascination of lighted houses in the night. There should be a light in the house behind her. She should be turning on the lights in it. She should be living here. She could be happy here. She could be friends with the wind and the rain here: she could love the lake even if it did not have the sparkle and boom of gulf seas; she could put out nuts for the saucy squirrels and hang up bird-houses for the feathered folk and feed the pheasants Mrs Townley said lived in the ravine.
Suddenly there was a slim, golden new moon over the oaks and the world was still . . . almost as still as Queen’s Shore on a calm summer night and there was a sparkling of lights along the lake drive like a necklace of gems on some dark beauty’s breast.
“Where were you all the evening, darling?” asked mother as they drove home.
“Picking out a house to buy,” said Jane dreamily. “I wish we lived here instead of at 60 Gay, mummy.”
Mother was silent for a moment.
“You don’t like 60 Gay very well, do you, dearest?”
“No,” said Jane. And then, to her own amazement, added, “Do you?”
She was still more amazed when mother said, quickly and vehemently, “I hate it!”
That night Jane ticked off May. Only ten days more. It was days now where it had been weeks. Oh, suppose she took ill and couldn’t go! But no! God wouldn’t . . . couldn’t!
CHAPTER 34
Grandmother coldly told mother to buy what clothes . . . if any . . . were necessary for Jane. Jane and mother had a happy afternoon’s shopping. Jane picked her own things . . . things that would suit Lantern Hill and an Island summer. Mother insisted on some smart little knitted sweaters and one pretty dress of rose-pink organdie with delicious frills. Jane didn’t know where she would ever wear it . . . it was too ornate for the little south church but she let mother buy it to please her. And mother got her the niftiest little green bathing-suit.
“Just think,” reflected Jane happily, “in a week I’ll be on Queen’s Shore. I hope the water won’t be too cold for swimming. . . .”
“We may be going to the Island in August,” said Phyllis. “Dad says he hasn’t been down for so long he’d like to spend another vacation there. If we do, we’ll be stopping at the Harbour Head Hotel and it isn’t very far from there to Queen’s Shore. So we’ll likely see you.”
Jane didn’t know whether she liked this idea or not. She didn’t want Phyllis there, patronizing the Island . . . looking down her nose at Lantern Hill and the boot-shelf and the Snowbeams.
Jane went to the Maritimes with the Randolphs this year and they left on the morning train instead of the night. It was a dull, cloudy day but Jane was so happy she positively radiated happiness around her like sunshine. Mrs Randolph’s opinion of Jane was the very opposite of what Mrs Stanley’s had been. Mrs Randolph thought she had never met a more charming child, interested in everything, finding beauty everywhere, even in those interminable stretches of pulpwood lands and lumber forests in New Brunswick. Jane studied the time-table and hailed each station as a friend, especially the ones with quaint, delightful names . . . Red Pine, Bartibog, Memramcook. And then Sackville where they left the main line and got on the little branch train to Cape Tormentine. How sorry Jane felt for any one who was not going to the Island!
Cape Tormentine . . . the car ferry . . . watching for the red cliffs of the Island . . . there they were . . . she had really forgotten how red they were . . . and beyond them misty green hills. It was raining again, but who cared? Everything the Island did was right. If it wanted to rain . . . why, rain was Jane’s choice.
Having left Toronto on the morning train, they were in Charlottetown by mid-afternoon. Jane saw dad the moment she stepped off the train . . . grinning and saying, “Excuse me, but your face seems familiar. Are you by any chance . . .” but Jane had hurled herself at him. They had never been parted . . . she had never been away at all. The world was real again. She was Jane again. Oh, dad, dad!
She had been afraid Aunt Irene would be there, too . . . possibly Miss Lilian Morrow as well. But Aunt Irene, it transpired, was away on a visit to Boston and had taken Miss Morrow with her. Jane secretly hoped that Aunt Irene would be having such a fine time in Boston that she wouldn’t be able to tear herself away for a long time.
“And the car has turned temperamental again,” said dad. “I had to leave it in the garage at the Corners and borrow Step-a-yard’s horse and buggy. You don’t mind?”
Mind? Jane was delighted. She wanted that drive to Lantern Hill to be so slow that she could drink the road in as she drove along. And she liked to be behind a horse. You could talk to a horse as you never could to a car. The fact was, if dad had said they had to walk to Lantern Hill it wouldn’t have mattered to Jane.
Dad put lean strong hands under her arms and swung her up to the buggy seat.
“Let’s just go on from where we left off. You’ve grown since last summer, my Jane.”
“An inch,” said Jane proudly.
It had stopped raining. The sun was coming out. Beyond, the white wave crests on the harbour were laughing at her . . . waving their hands at her.
“Let’s go uptown and buy our house some presents. Jane.”
“A double boiler that won’t leak, dad. Booties always did, a little. And a potato-ricer . . . can we get a potato-ricer, dad?”
Dad thought the budget would stretch to a potato-ricer.
It was delightful, all of it. But Jane sparkled when they had left town behind them, going home to all the things they loved.
“Drive slow, dad. I don’t want to miss anything on the road.”
She was feasting her eyes on everything . . . spruce-clad hills, bits of gardens full of unsung beauty tucked away here and there, glimpses of sparkling sea, blue rivers . . . had those rivers really been so blue last summer? It had been an early spring and all the blossom show was over. Jane was sorry for that. She wondered if she would ever be able to get to the Island in time to see the Titus ladies’ famous cherry walk in its spring-blow.
They called for a moment to see Mrs Meade, who kissed Jane and was sorry Mr Meade couldn’t come out to see her, because he was in bed with an abyss in his ear. She gave them a packet of ham sandwiches and cheese to stay their stomachs if they were hungry on the road.
They heard the ocean before they saw it. Jane loved the sound. It was as if the spirit of the sea called to her. And then the first snuff of salt in the air . . . there was one particular hill where they always got the first tang. And from that same hill they caught their first far-away glimpse of Lantern Hill. It was wonderful to be able to see your own home so far off . . . to feel that every step the horse took was bringing you nearer to it.
From there on Jane was on her own stamping ground. It was so exciting to recognize all the spots along the road . . . green wood lanes, old beloved farms that held out their arms to her. The single row of spruces was still marching up Little Donald’s hill. The dunes . . . and the fishing boats sailing in . . . and the little blue pond laughing at her . . . and Lantern Hill. Home after exile!
Somebody . . . Jane discovered later that it was the Snowbeams . . . had made “Welcome” with white stones in the walk. Happy was waiting for them in the yard and nearly ate Jane alive. Bubbles, the new fat white dog, sat apart and looked at her, but he was so cute that Jane forgave him on the spot for being Bubbles.
The first thing was to visit every room and every room welcomed her back. Nothing was changed. She looked the ho
use over to make sure nothing was missing. The little bronze soldier was still riding on his bronze horse and the green cat kept watch and ward over dad’s desk. But the silver needed polishing and the geraniums needed pruning and when had the kitchen floor been scrubbed?
She had been away from Lantern Hill for nine months, but now it seemed to her that she had never been away at all. She had really been living here all along. It was her spirit’s home.
There was a bunch of little surprises . . . nice surprises. They had six hens . . . there was a small henhouse built below the garden . . . there was a peaked porch roof built over the glass-paned door . . . and dad had got the telephone in.
First Peter was sitting on the doorstone when Jane came downstairs, with a big mouse in his mouth, very proud of his prowess as a hunter. Jane pounced on him, mouse and all, and then looked around for Second Peter. Where was Second Peter?
Dad put his arm closely around Jane.
“Second Peter died last week, Jane. I don’t know what happened to him . . . he got sick. I had the vet for him but he could do nothing.”
Jane felt a stinging in her eyes. She would not cry but she choked.
“I . . . I . . . didn’t think anything I loved could die,” she whispered into dad’s shoulder.
“Ah, Jane, love can’t fence out death. He had a happy life if a short one . . . and we buried him in the garden. Come out and see the garden, Jane . . . it burst into bloom as soon as it heard you were coming.”
A wind ran through the garden as they entered it and it looked as if every flower and shrub were nodding a head or waving a hand at them. Dad had a corner where vegetables were all up in neat little rows and there were new beds of annuals.
“Miranda got what you wanted from the seedsman . . . I think you’ll find everything, even the scabious. What do you want with scabious, Jane? It’s an abominable name . . . sounds like a disease.”
“Oh, the flowers are pretty, dad. And there are so many nicer names for them. . . . Lady’s pincushion and Mourning Bride. Aren’t the pansies lovely? I’m so glad I sowed them last August.”
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 526